


When the night ends, you are still here

by OddKid42



Category: The Marbury Lens Series - Andrew Smith
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Conner as the narrator, Conner has guilt, Cussing, Epilogue, Eventual Happy Ending, Gay Male Character, Jack has PTSD, M/M, Other, canonical angst, flashback to canon events, if you've read the book you know what tags there are angst-wise, other relationship is them as parents, set after Passengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-31 12:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19426459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OddKid42/pseuds/OddKid42
Summary: Conner tries to be a good boyfriend. Jack tries to recover from the past. They try to make a normal life together.





	1. One

I didn’t realize how highly he held me. I didn’t realize- I had been friends with Jack for a long ass time, but the first month of dating him was like relearning something basic, like running or bicycles.

I had dated girls before, probably more than I really should have. (God, I’m a slut. I had that epiphany out loud one day, and Jack looked incredibly unimpressed. I’m the dumb blonde in the relationship.) 

Anyway, I went into it (the relationship) thinking, “I’ve known the guy for years. He’s my best friend; we’ve been to literal hell and back. How could I fuck it up?” 

Wow, can I fuck up. Granted, Jack argues he’s the fuck up. (He isn’t. Like, yeah therapy would be good. Couples therapy even, if he’d go, but Jack Whitmore is not a fucked up, and I’ll fight anyone who says different.) But anyway, I’m so shitty at dating. It would be funny if Jack wasn’t so important to me. 

At first it was just the awkwardness of our friendship suddenly in an official, romantic context. (Also the suicide attempt. When we talked the next evening about it all, he had the bruises across- Fuck me. Just honestly, damn me for all the stupid things I have said and done.) What I mean, though, is I realized that for any hesitation Jack had about dating me- I caused that. My stupid jokes and trying to get him a girlfriend to prove he wasn’t gay caused that. 

Luckily, I sorted that out early on and apologized. He got freaked out (need a better adjective) about me crying, but he hugged me for the first time since The Drama, or really Stupid Goggles Adventures. Or Freddie kidnapping Jack. Or I guess, him stumbling into Reverse Cowgirl. Fun times. 

(Actually that’s another bad memory of being stupid because Jack looked like I had personally shot him when he walked in on that drunk, and I should have gone after him. Was going to but didn’t. Put it off. “No homo bro”, idiot past me. If I had gone after him that night, found him pissing in the bushes or found him sleeping in the park, he wouldn’t have been targeted. That was my fault. It was entirely my fault. Instead I fucked a girl I can’t remember the name of and then I blocked her number when I realized where Jack was during that time. What was I doing when Freddie approached a drunk Jack in the park? I don’t know. I should have been there. Even if he had kidnapped both of us, (He wouldn’t have. There would have been two of us, and Jack is more protective of me than himself and would have walked me home however hurt or angry he felt.) even if he gotten both of us in the car, Jack at least wouldn’t have been alone. (Maybe I need therapy, for the guilt aspect. Also the murder aspect, but more for guilt of leaving him alone. Fuck you, Freddie. Enjoy hell.) 

Anyway, so the whole emotional barrier eased a bit when we both kinda acknowledged that I was an ass (arse in British. I still piss off the English teacher for the Californian accent.). I needed to reduce/eliminate my asshole effect on the relationship, like a shitty seesaw with Jack stuck at the other end, so I directed energy towards stupid but non-harmful things like messing up Jack’s hair, lounging across his bed, and wearing his running shorts. 

He slowly started doing things back, like joking that I’m a needy boyfriend. But then he’d watch my reaction. And my gut instinct out of years of habit would be to form the reply “better than the British faggots you’d date otherwise”, but I’d catch myself. And I would say something like “So nothing’s changed then?” and he would roll his eyes and focus on homework again on his desk. 

But we still had that two seconds when he had to gather the nerve to comment on us dating, and I had to stop myself from hurting him with a knee-jerk reaction. (I want him to get angry. I don’t remember half the crap I’ve said, but I have the horrible feeling that he does.) 

On our one month anniversary of dating, I tried to get us drunk (probably need a better couple’s activity. What do gay guys do for fun? Putt-putt and musicals? Shit, that was homophobic. Damn it, Conner.) For privacy and the sake of romanticism, I locked my roommate out and brought six cans of beer to split with Jack and a copy of Brokeback Mountain (I know, past Conner remains an idiot. Don’t be that surprised. It was the only gay movie I knew of.) Jack kept asking why I had bought it and did I know what it was about but mainly “why?” until I got frustrated and admitted that I was trying to be romantic and if he didn’t want to watch it we didn’t have to, which really just meant Jack felt morally obligated to make a pillow pile against the headboard and lean against me (tensely then relaxing a bit over several minutes) as we watched it on the laptop and drank beer. One beer down for both of us in and lots of shots of the actors silently staring at each other later, and I thought I had chosen an actual movie about two ranchers and then the sex scene started and I audible said “Oh, okay”. 

Jack tensed next to me, and like a champion, I stuck my foot in my fucking mouth and said, “No, it’s fine. I missed the signals. Were there signals?”, and Jack sat up and said, “Yeah, there were signals. No surprise you missed them.” He looked like he regretted saying it a second afterward, but I wasn’t thinking and said, “No I don’t. When have I ever missed them?” 

One-beer relaxed me was thinking of the girls I had fucked. Jack was very clearly thinking about elementary school and up of him and me, and I only realized that later. At the time Jack just quickly stood up and said he needed to use the bathroom. (I have also since learned that he goes to the bathroom to leave difficult conversations or to cry.) 

Being an asshole that can’t take a hint, I grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down and said, “No, explain what you meant. What have I ever missed?” 

And Jack watched the actors hold each other on the screen and said, “You know he dies, right?” 

(I have also since learned that it isn’t even that movie Jack dies; he gets into an intensely emotional argument over his long-term boyfriend’s refusal to have a life together and says the iconic line “I wish I knew how to quit you.” and then is beaten to death off-screen. Way to pick a movie, Con. You fucking idiot.) 

I let go of his wrist since he wasn’t trying to leave. I was a bit annoyed at the change of topic. “I mean, I remember hearing that a long time ago, but to be honest, I hoped, you know, that we could turn it off after the beginning and do other stuff.” 

Jack gave me a toned down version of the look when he walked in on the reverse cowgirl mess but different (hurt? sad? angry?). 

“Don’t touch me if you have to get drunk first, Conner.” Then he went to the bathroom, and I had the moment of being incredibly confused-frustrated, slightly horny, but having no counter-argument. (It’s all I knew, Jack. You didn’t realize you were dating a trainwreck, but all of my hook-ups, minor relationships, began and ended with drunk make-out sessions to romantic movies. It was all I knew about dating. I’m so sorry.) 

My roommate came in with the door unlocked as soon as Jack walked out, pissed off at me, at the pillow fort, and took my beers as compensation before leaving again. 

Jack didn’t come back, (I confirmed with his roommate that he was 100% in his room because holy shit have I learned my lesson about leaving him by himself after a fight.) so after making his roommate promise to pass along the message that I’m stupid and sorry (which he assured me he was all too happy to do), I went to bed early while my roommate attempted shotgunning a beer before choking. I lied in bed thinking about what I was doing right and what was going wrong in frustration at myself until I gave up and fell asleep. 

I woke up to Jack brushing hair off of my face, something he only does when he thinks I’m asleep. I sighed waking up, and his fingers were instantly back to holding his arms when I blinked away at him. “I’m sorry.” 

“What?” I still had sleep in my eye that I was trying to pick out but caught the glance at my roommate. Which was ridiculous because it was a Friday and he had drained the rest of my drinks in revenge judging by the cans on the floor as I sat up. 

“For last night, being...it isn’t your fault. I was being pissy for no reason. I ruined your night. I’m sorry.” (Jack can be stubborn about the worst things.) 

I scooted over in the twin size bed and patted the pillow. He glanced at my passed out roommate before taking the offered pillow. (Weighing the risk, always taking in the risk of doing something when it comes to me.) 

He settled under the covers in his ridiculous sexy school uniform (always sexy, both continents), and I pulled him (gently) closer to me. I rested my forehead against his, and we laid like that without saying anything for a nice moment. (It’s weird how I actually enjoy small things like cuddling with Jack. It was just a post-sex chore with girls.) 

“Hey,” I finally said after waking up a bit more, “I’m sorry for acting like a stereotypical blonde bitch.” 

“You’re not a blonde bitch.” Then revised, “You’re blonde but not a bitch, I mean.” 

“No, no.” I pretended to be mournful. “I’m just a Californian party girl queen. A blonde Barbie trying to make her way in the world. A wild mustang, if you will, who needs a steady ranch hand to calm his wild living and rein him in, something something horse metaphor.” 

A beat of silence. “That may have been a Keats attempt, but it better not be a fucking Brokeback Mountain reference.” 

“Thanks, babe. You know I try.” Keats reminded me. “Shit, that was our reading assignment, wasn’t it?” 

“Yep.” 

I eyed him from across the pillow. “You’re not going to let me copy off you, are you?” 

Some thought. “No.” 

I wrapped my arms around him and pulled myself against his chest while he tried to figure out a comfortable position. “Oh well. No hope for me now anyway. I guess I’ll just be your trophy wife, husband, while you attend Oxford.” 

“I’m not going to Oxford.” He still didn’t know where to put his hands. Physical intimacy has never been his thing, and I was hoping he liked me spooning him more than he was uncomfortable. 

“Oh, Jack.” I played up a valley girl accent. “I know I cannot neither knit nor sew. I can’t make you a hat for the harsh English winter. I can’t iron your underpants, let alone mine. I can only hope that you know my love for you continues onward as it always has.” 

He paused in his attempts to shift his arm above his head and frowned. “This is probably a weird time to think about Seth, but I feel like a parallel is taking place here.” 

“Involving what? Also, damn it Jack, it kills the mood when you squirm. Here.” I rolled on my back and pulled/guided him on top of me under the blankets. He was at an angle and tried to prop himself on his elbows before giving up and gently resting his chest on mine, chin on that bone connecting ribs. “There. Now what do you mean? A prosecuted romance that ends with a deranged pastor whipping me or blondes making a Whitmore horny?” 

“Shut up, Conner.” But he was laughing, and I could see the small chips in his teeth. 

I wanted to kiss him. Also, the position was compromising, and joking about horniness aside, I was trying not to ruin the happy PG moment. 

“I mean,” he adjusted to set his hand in my hair, checked my reaction to make sure it’s okay, and continued, “that, well...this is it. It’s the happy ending. I mean, it’s not always going to be wonderful. Maybe we break up.” 

I wanted to interrupt and say that we aren’t, but he was miles away in self-reflection mode. 

“But right now, everything is okay. I am happy, and I know this moment is going to be a memory I try to look back on.” 

He looked at me solemnly, and I tried to match his expression while making my own but gave up. Jack is much better at the “I love you but can’t say it” look. 

I replied, “Even if we do breakup, and we’re not but hypothetically, we’re still going to be friends. You’re always going to be my best friend, Jack.” 

Jack’s face made the little “o”, and he looked so goddamn touched like it isn’t obvious that he is my best friend and we’re on an actual continent away from home together and dating. I laughed and pulled him tighter against my chest. “Yes, you dork. Why do you think we’re in England together?” 

For a quiet time, we studied each other’s face. The boys outside of the room flushed toilets and some conversations got louder and passed as they headed to breakfast, but the bed was warm and Jack didn’t look as worn as he usually is. He hadn’t gotten a haircut in a while, and the strands slid down a bit. His chest rose against mine at a steady, healthy rhythm, and I appreciated the calm contrast to the quick breaths when he has finished a run or is having a panic attack or dying with an arrow through him or belt around his throat. 

His eyes were already watching mine when I met his, and I had to tell myself that he’s okay. He’s alive. He’s here. As he always says at random moments- stepping out of class in the rain, when tourists ask us to take their picture, at night when I’m dosing off-, this is it. 

I reached my hand and set it against his ear, weaving my fingers in his hair, and he didn’t dissociate thinking about Freddie touching him or glance away with nervousness that I am only pretending to like him. 

He slowly shifted his hands to rest against my face and slowly inched his face down while watching my reaction (always worried about fucking up) until I closed my eyes and leaned up to meet his lips. 

He had no idea how to kiss, but the sincerity and gentleness of it caused me to forget to breath, and I had to break it off to inhale. 

Instantly, his eyes were open, and he was giving me space. I held him against me still to make him pause and laughed happily because it’s so- It’s new and I was so happy it could be new with him. Because it’s him, and I’m so glad it’s him and that he kissed slow enough to feel his heartbeat through my chest.


	2. Two

Sometimes Jack isn’t fully present. He isolates himself. He only glances at me when I say something or looks slightly past me. He watches crowds and flinches at loud noises. He doesn’t say much unless he has to.

When he starts acting like this, I know it is the start of a bad week even when he doesn’t tell me that it is. (I keep telling him that he doesn’t have to treat the “stress events”—a PTSD definition that I found online and use to sound more in control of it. Like it can’t get too bad if I can name it, right?—He doesn’t have to deal with them by himself.) 

The worst part of these days is the span of two days when he doesn’t sleep but places himself in my room, on my bed with his feet crossed underneath him. He tries to subtly hold his ankles down when he does, but I give him shit when I catch him because he needs to cut it out. 

On the first night of him sitting guard, I woke up in the night to him in my desk chair staring at the door across the room, and it scared the shit out of me. 

I am not sure if the night watch is assurance that he is okay or that I am okay. It also might just be the aspect of Jack that makes him throw himself in front of an arrow for me except he is taking up position in case Freddie returns. Or he wants to return to Marbury when this world feels too unreal, but my presence stops him. 

I don’t know, but Jack being nearby isn’t the worst place for him to be when he is having a bad night. 

Nowadays, I wake up and his head is usually bent from where he has fallen asleep. I am careful to wake him without touching him. (I made the mistake of rubbing his knee once, and he didn’t realize it was me in the dark. The rest of the night was spent with me talking to him to calm him down.) Sometimes he insists on remaining seated upright on guard, but other times I am able to convince him to let me wrap my arms around him and sleep. I usually fall asleep before him, and sometimes I wake up with him asleep against me in the morning. Then I debate skipping classes to let him keep sleeping, but my asshole roommate inevitably wakes Jack up despite my mouthed threats. 

I am not a psychologist, so I don’t know if he is getting better. I can at least read his body language a bit better than before boarding school began.

****

***

****

“Do you think that Freddie Horvath would have been convicted if I had pressed charges?” 

I wished that I was more awake because half of me was shouting how important this conversation sounded and the other half wanted to hit him in the head with a pillow for trying to have the conversation at two in the morning. I had just been rolling over in bed, but he was having a stress night and wanted to talk. 

I rolled onto my back and tried to process the question, but it came in pieces. Freddie Horvath, anger. Convicted, I took longer but realized he meant courts and lawyer stuff. What was the last bit? Testify in court? Maybe. 

“If you had testified in court?” I tried. 

“If I had left you call the police, there would have been enough evidence. The news said that the supplies were found at his house. If I had called the police even the next morning, I think he would have been convicted.” 

I hum-groaned to show I was listening and partially conscious. 

“However, assault victims are not taken seriously, and since I’m a guy, it would have been worse. The defense lawyer would say that I shouldn’t have been drinking or that I consented. They would make me testify in front of him, and I think he would get off on the damage he caused. He would sit there watching me, and it would be worth it for him.” 

I was becoming more awake the longer Jack talked. He was starting to sound strained now. I usually let him talk himself out, but I interceded on the nightmare, “You don’t have to. I killed him.” 

“I know that.” He sounds exhausted. “I’m saying if you hadn’t. If I had called the police.” 

I sighed tiredly. “I’m going back to sleep.” After a moment of imagining Jack nervous of testifying in front of Freddie, I added, “If you had gone to court, I would have gone with you. But I might have killed him in the courthouse. Goodnight, Jack.”


	3. Three

After constantly using taxis and subways, it felt oddly nostalgic to watch Jack drive the rental car from the airport. Jack-watching had always been a fun activity, but for some reason (being in California for the first time since we started dating, I guess) I watched the side of the road instead of him while the radio played. It seemed more real that Jack had traveled down the side of a road for eight miles that night. Ankles and palms bleeding, hiding every time a car passed, trying to reach my house.

I could never ask him. I just wondered why he thought I could help somehow. Why my house. Why not his. 

(Then one night when we are twenty-one and our apartment is quiet I do ask, and he says quietly, “I thought- I kept thinking that if I could get to you, just get to you, that everything would be okay. I kept going through the Marbury fragments until I was sure it was you.” 

“And then you could die?” I regretted it as soon as I asked, but Jack didn’t even wince. 

“Yeah. Then it would be- yeah. I didn’t want to be alone. If I was doomed, the center of the universe collapsing or whatever it is, I didn’t want to be alone when it did.” 

I couldn’t think of anything to say, and I wanted to look away from him but not let him out of my sight. I wrapped my arms around him and held him until he became uncomfortable.) 

***

It is when I am buzzed from my parents’ scotch, in the middle of the girl bouncing against me that Jack stubbles into the room. He is buzzed, but even buzzed, his eyes instantly meet mine when I say his name. Then he takes in what is happening and steps back. 

I invite him to join us. I want it to be a joke, but I want him to accept. I have enough booze in me to claim it would mean nothing, but I want him in bed with me. 

He looks like I have hit him and stumbles away to the door, mumbling about needing to go. The girl says something, but I am watching the door close with a sudden anxiety. I try to ignore it, try to focus, but after a couple of uncomfortable minutes I tell her to get off me and put my clothes back on to find Jack. 

The house is loud. I must have lipstick smeared across my face because people laugh, and I give them a smirk before I ask where Jack is. They don’t know. 

I make it outside, and the cooler breeze sobers me a bit. A guy from track says Jack peed out here a few minutes ago. He doesn’t know where Jack went. The anxiety is getting worse, like if I don’t find him soon something horrible will happen. 

In frustration at the sudden stress, Jack for disappearing, and no one knowing anything, I yell in my lawn if anyone has seen where Jack Whitmore went, and a girl I don’t even know says that she saw him heading down the road a few minutes ago. I run off without thanking her. 

My gut, or arrow direction of anxiety whichever, pulls me into the park, and I see his ridiculous mess of hair on a bench. A man in a lab coat is standing in front of him, talking to him. 

Jack was always too trusting, I think in the dream and realize suddenly that 1. I am in a dream and 2. The man is Freddie Horvath who kidnaps and nearly assaults my best friend. 

“Jack!” The pitch is off. It sounds like I am screaming his name after he is shot through the chest in Marbury rather than getting his attention. 

Jack turns startled in his seat, and Freddie steps back immediately, quick to create distance. I can hear Jack’s soft “Con?” as I run stumbling up. 

“There you are.” I am out of breath, and I am scared of the man standing hauntingly nearby. Jack is looking at me unharmed, so I focus on him first. “I have been looking all over for you.” 

Jack makes the little “o” like he is so goddamn touched, and I want to cry. Yes, I came for you. Yes, I have been looking for you. Yes, I love you too. Come back with me. Don’t create Marbury within yourself. 

I reach out my hand to help him up, and he hesitantly takes it. He smiles awkwardly after I pull him to his feet because I am now clutching his hand protectively and pulling him away from the bench while still facing Freddie. 

The demon is watching us and knows. His glasses are reflecting orange light from the street lamp, and he is taking Jack and me in with something like hunger. He is holding himself casually except for his eyes which are burning into mine as I coax Jack away. He wants us both because he knows that I know what he is. 

Freddie says, “Can I offer you two a ride back to your house?” 

“No!” I put too much anger into it, too much emphasis. I am close to crying because everything in me wants to protect Jack so badly right now. Jack who is watching Freddie and me and starting to squeeze my hand back, and I need to get him back to the safety of my house so damn badly. 

Freddie starts walking towards us. “Neither of you are sober enough to get back safely.” 

I have to stop him. If he touches Jack, everything begins. “Fuck you!” I roar facing him and place myself between Jack and him. “Don’t you fucking dare! Don’t even fucking try!” 

“Try what?” The glasses are flashing death like the Marbury Lens, and he knows. He knows that I know. I have to- I have to protect Jack, but he is stumbling too slow and clinging to my shirt, and I am crying now because I don’t want to lose him and I am so damn scared. 

“Jack! Run!” I let go of his hand to shove him, but he just trips and falls and there is an arrow through him and Freddie is a Hunter now and his claws are syringes and I scream. I scream Jack’s name because this might be it. 

“Conner!” He is shaking my shoulders. “It’s just a dream. Wake up. Come on.” 

I sit up still crying and search for a grip on Jack’s shirt where he is sitting in front of me. “Jack, did Freddie hurt you?” 

“What? Did-?” Jack stutters syllables, and the panic is fading enough to realize that I am in my California bedroom and Jack and I are visiting from England. But the immediacy still feels real, like we might have to run. I ask again, “Are you okay?” 

“I’m- uh, yeah. I’m- yeah,” He is doing the thing where he is trying to stay in this time not other memories in his head. “Why did you ask about-?” 

I gather enough senses to process that we are safe, Jack doesn’t know what is happening, and I just brought up the memory of Freddie in my bedroom. “Shit, Jack. I’m sorry. It was a nightmare.” 

“Yeah. You were talking in your sleep.” His voice is more collected, but he won’t be able to sleep the rest of the night because I said the name. He asks quietly while I wipe the remaining tears out of my eyes, 

“Were you dreaming about him hurting me?” He makes it sound like he personally responsible for the nightmare. 

Jack half-asleep in his school uniform smiling when he sees me in the morning. 

Jack half-panicked with his ankles and hand smeared in blood waking me in the early morning and unable to speak except to say he can’t talk about it yet and demand that I don’t leave him. 

Jack half-drunk but watching me in a bar so freaks like Freddie Horvath don’t get me. 

It is not fair that I always feel safe around him. 

“Yes. Wait, no. I was- it was a stupid nightmare.” It was just a self-serving dream to get rid of guilt. “I dreamed that I had followed you to the park and I was trying to keep him away from you. Crap, I’m sorry I woke you up.” 

Jack is silent for a moment, and it is too dark to see him so I wipe my face and nose annoyed. I can stay up with him the rest of the night because I caused this. I try to think of what to say and what we can do the rest of the night to ease the situation, but I draw a blank. 

“Con,” I can’t determine what his tone is or see his face. “I am really glad you didn’t follow me to the park that time.” 

I don’t want to argue with him, but no. That is not going to assure me and I am not having this conversation with him now. “I really disagree, but it is over now. It doesn’t matter.” 

“Conner.” 

No. I am not entertaining his “I’m so stupid. I’m so sorry. Everything bad that has happened is my fault for being gay” shtick that he picks up during stress events. 

I get out of bed. “Well, I’m not going to be able to sleep and you aren’t going to be able to sleep, so let’s just get up and do something. Maybe make a smoothie and see what is on television. Do you want to come?” 

He stubbornly sits for a moment while I get out of bed, but he does. Because I woke him up at four in the morning in my bedroom by mentioning Freddie Horvath. 

I find some frozen strawberries and blueberries, so we occupy ourselves for several minutes blending fruit, tasting it, commenting what it needs more of, and repeating the cycle until we are both satisfied with the result. Jack is still quiet and watching me with the hint of protectiveness that he gets, and I think that I can manage the situation. Then I turn the TV on, and the first channel is one of those late night “buy this fake jewelry programs” that I let play as I search for something else in the guide. 

Jack lets a quiet, “No.” and I recognize the flat tone enough to immediately switch the TV off. His focus is on the carpet with his head tilted slightly, and he is gripping his drink. I take it out of his hand and set both out of the way before moving in front of him. 

“Jack, you’re not there. Look at me. Can you tell me where you are at? Come on, Jack.” 

He stiff in his seat, and it isn’t like he doesn’t know where he is. It is that the place feels the same, and he is reliving it. He is both sitting on the couch and tied to Freddie’s bed from a year ago. All of the fear of Marbury in one room. 

I don’t want to risk worsening it by touching his face, so I adjust his grip on his wrists (because they are zip-tied together, and if he can just repeat the conditions, he can survive it again) into my hands. “Jack, you are in my house. He is dead. He will remain dead because I will kill him again if he isn’t. You are safe. We go-” No good mentioning England. “We are dating, and you are safe. I am not going to let anyone hurt you.” 

His hands are still limp, and he has the thousand yard stare. He doesn’t make eye contact with me but says in a whisper, “The 14k amethyst mixable ring. This 14k amethyst ring is available for 113.99. Captivating by color, this mixable ring is embellished with set amethyst gemstones framed in 14K white gold. Believed to protect its owner from drunkenness,” his voice snags a bit in a half-sob and his lips pull back as the tears streak down his nose, “and a symbol of luxury, the amethyst stone is sure to serve as a gift for anyone.” 

“Jack, it’s okay. You aren’t there.” I hate this. I hate this. “Jack, can I hold you? Would that be okay?” 

His eyes trail over my face, and his hands are starting to shake as he pulls himself out of it enough to speak. He nods and sniffs his nose. I gently move to sit next to him on the couch and pull his head against my shoulder while I wrap my arms around his back. 

Something else in the memory breaks, and he is digging his nails into my back as he sobs. “Conner! Con, he pressed his hand against my back to pin my down and put lube-” 

“I know, I know.” Please. Please don’t repeat it. Don’t tell me. 

He clutches my shirt and presses his forehead against my chest. “Conner.” I can hear his teeth chattering. 

“I know. I’m here.” He presses his arms against his sides (to stop the memory of being tazed) and I hold him tighter. Deep pressure therapy or something. He needs to have his back exposed though during these moments. “I will keep you safe, Jack. I know. I’m here.” 

His nails have lessened on my back, and his fingertips are pressed there. His voice is steadier, but he repeats the details quickly because he has to expel the memory. It doesn’t end until he can reach the end of it. 

He speaks with his forehead against my neck. “Seth was under the bed, rolling the toy horse. It kept me awake. If I had fallen asleep, he would have killed me, but I stayed awake. I reached underneath the bed and pulled the piece of metal off. I couldn’t feel my hand, so it didn’t hurt. The entire time I kept hearing the Amethyst Hour in the next room. Two people called in, and they were on earrings when I dropped out of the window. They were making stock jokes about wearing amethyst to parties. I kept thinking how he didn’t look like a pedophile.” 

The nails dug into my back again, and his voice starts speeding up again into panic. “He must have carried me up the steps when I was drugged. I didn’t realize I was on the second floor until I stood up. He must have seen the blood when he came back. I thought-” 

“Jack, Jack. Jack. It is not happening now. You are safe. It doesn’t matter if he saw; I killed him. He was dead in the road. The police found out that he was a monster. But you killed monsters too, Jack, but you don’t have to anymore. You can survive anything, and I’m going to stay here with you.” I continue speaking until his breath levels again and the nails stop digging into my skin. “You are on the couch with me. We are dating now. You survived. You aren’t there anymore. This is it.” 

“This is it?” His voice is slightly hoarse. 

“This is it. It is over.” 

He doesn’t speak, and I start gently rubbing circles with my palm. He says exhausted, “Is it ever going to be over?” 

“It is. It is because I am here now. We can protect each other.”


	4. Four

It’s stupid, and I know that of all the important things it is ranked incredibly low, but I swear this is the longest I have gone without having sex in my life. Okay, since puberty. Okay, since turning fifteen and my parents’ divorce making the house more vacant than it otherwise would be. But still.

I was trying to not say anything to Jack because sex is like a goddamn landmine of undiagnosed PTSD fuckery that I do not need to push him into. Like, hi best friend now love of my teenage life, do you want to remember all of those times grown men touched you without your consent? Do you want to relive that except with me as the cause? 

No. Fuck that. 

However, him getting more comfortable kissing me is making me hopeful that maybe I won’t have to jerk myself off forever. 

But I would! To clarify, I would! Like, the other option being Jack having a panic attack, I can swear myself into self-celibacy, or whatever that is called. Seeds on the ground and all that Biblical bullshit. I don’t know. Maybe not as the first step though. 

We have had a version of the sex talk. Or more accurately, Jack had a full monologue to me about how he understood that I still liked girls. How he thinks I am probably bisexual while he was just gay. How it was okay that I liked both as long as I let him know if I started seeing anyone else. He tried to frame it like he was okay with an open relationship, which is a bold-faced lie and I told him that. He wasn’t going to be okay with me sleeping around because he definitely only liked me and would give me that kicked-dog look if I fooled around with anyone. It would be wrong and unfair, but I am honest when I say that yeah, girls are still hot, but no, I am definitely committed to Jack. 

However, what emphasizes that I am sixteen and am, in fact, sexually attracted to Jack Whitmore is that the first button of his white cotton shirt is undone, his hair has grown a bit longer, and he is reading on my bed with his head in my lap. 

While I still avoid homework if I can, Jack has taken up reading Great War literature in his free time since, after Marbury, it is suddenly relatable. I don’t mind since he still runs with me and it gives me prime Jack-watching time when I am avoiding homework. I also like leaning up against him when he is reading, and he doesn’t mind it as much as he usually would. 

Like now, I can run my hand through his hair as he reads and study his face, and I hold back from leaning forward and pulling him against me. I have heard him gasping after particularly hard runs. Seen his back slick with sweat. I know what the inside of his mouth tastes like. It isn’t hard to combine those images together until I have to focus on the wallpaper to make myself calm down, but Jack calmly reading literature and looking like some Oscar Wild-esque pretty boy is new, and I am genuinely enjoying seeing him explore more art stuff like photography and reading. He is gradually becoming happier. Not really who he was before Marbury, but I think a more stable person since then. 

There is the darker part of my mind at the same time that makes me feel guilty for thinking sexual things about him. That points out that Freddie Horvart also wanted to hear him gasp, and damn him. Damn him for remaining a lingering ghost. Goddamn his dead body in the road that Jack was afraid to get near but afraid to leave me on my own with. 

I rest my fingers in Jack’s hair while he reads his book. I want to protect him so badly, and I want to love him so badly too.


	5. Five

There are stops and starts throughout on the first night; it is slow and constant communication is going on, but no alcohol. Granted, we both stopped drinking to get drunk during the Christmas holiday break since there was the general agreement between us that it wasn’t helping anything. Jack has begun ordering cocktails at restaurants, and I like ordering beer and then drinking his cocktail so that part hasn’t exactly changed.

Actually, there were a lot of nice things that happened when Jack felt like he could stop censoring himself and when I became more open about stuff. 

(An unspoken awkwardness started with other students, but fuck them anyway. Neither of us stood up in class and declared our undying love for each other, but Jack and I allowed ourselves to touch in public like holding hands, which he had felt uncomfortable doing previously. I had to beat up two guys, and Jack’s roommate and my roommate are now dorming together. 

But that’s just secondary school dumbassery. I’m talking about the good parts.) 

The upside of homophobia is that Jack and I have our own room together. Along with Jack and I having privacy, we can slowly take time in exploring what the American public school sex education didn’t fill us in on. 

We can become functional adults with communication skills and all that stuff that seems hard to imagine less than a year ago. We can handle the past with healthy coping mechanisms. (At the bare minimum, I can let Jack sleep in during his bad days and deal with his annoyance later.) 

Really, it’s just being close to each other and gradually watching the walls break down between us. We don’t know where we are going in the future, but if we are together in it, I think we’ll be okay. 

*** 

Jack felt the need after the conversation with his grandparents, when the exchange had been completed until the next fight occurred, to turn to me and say simply, “I told you.” 

I felt more shaken than he looked, and he actually reached out to run his hand through my hair in the car. “It’s okay. I knew it would happen.” 

“What the fuck though?” I was still reeling just a bit from it. It had been my suggestion to inform his grandparents that we were dating despite Jack’s reluctance. I had not expected his grandparents to ditch their only grandchild. I had assumed that Jack’s disconnection with his grandparents was a PTSD anxiety thing. “What the fuck. You’re graduating in a few months and we live in England. How are we supposed to move all of your stuff over?” 

“We aren’t.” Jack’s fingers swirled through my hair, and he was comforting me. Actually comforting me, when he was the one whose grandparents just coldly scheduled to abandon when he turned eighteen. “I didn’t leave anything that I couldn’t live without after we first started dating. It’s going to be okay, Con.” 

His fingers pulled my head closer, and he kissed me while we were stopped at the stoplight. “We’re going to be okay.”


	6. Six

The six AM alarm goes off. Jack groans and pats my face for me to get it, which I do after several blind swipes at the phone. I sit up and blearily check the news to make sure the world didn’t end at some point in the night. Just because we aren’t in the US anymore doesn’t mean that it doesn’t impact us. None of the headlines register as urgent, so I get up, shower, wake up a bit more, and pause entering the bedroom again.

Seth, who had been asleep between us before the alarm went off, is curled against Jack, and Jack had dozed off again with his arms wrapped around the six year old. Both like to sleep knowing where the other is. 

Jack had been nervous talking to his therapist, Seth’s child therapist, the pediatrician, anyone really whose opinion Jack thought was worth listening to about co-sleeping. Opinions bounced around about to what extent should sleeping in bed with us be allowed, what age should it stop, etcetera. 

I thought it was silly to worry so much about what others thought because as I told Jack, “You aren’t going to hurt him. We’re letting him know that he can come to us whenever.” And I was right and so was Jack, who suggested it hesitantly after the first night we agreed to the foster placement, because Seth clung onto Jack and Jack held onto him and talked until he was hoarse assuring him that he was safe and no one would hurt him or leave. 

It’s not like Seth doesn’t love me too, to clarify, but it’s different because Jack and Seth understand trauma (Also Jack is a college professor whose entire dissertation was on trauma processing in literature, so he has a slight informational edge on me). 

The social worker was vague on what specifically occurred before the placement, but Jack picked up on warning signs quick. 

Early on, Jack prompted the five year old to draw how he felt when he was struggling with eating and using the restroom, and he ripped the sheet of paper. 

Jack calmly watched. “Is that how you feel? Is it sad or mad or?” 

The five year old screamed, pitching higher, took a breath, and then screamed again. He watched Jack, and Jack said soothingly, “It’s okay if you need to yell. It’s hard to use words.” 

He threw himself down on the floor, and Jack stopped him from hitting his head a second time by wrapping his arms around him. 

“Don’t hurt yourself. You can’t hurt yourself. If you hurt yourself, you won’t feel better.” The toddler wailed and struggled to get out of Jack’s arms folded around him. He slammed back his head repeatedly against Jack’s chest but Jack kept saying, “I hear you. I know. It’s a lot. You don’t know where you are. It’s okay to yell. We can’t hurt ourselves, so we have to say how we feel.” 

I stood by uncertain of where I fit into the scene. 

“Just be here, Con. Stay here, so I’m not by myself.” 

I realized that amongst how calm he was acting for the kid Jack was struggling, so I stayed. 

An hour or so of Jack talking, singing what I was told later were songs from Mr. Rogers, and rocking gently, the five year old had calmed down enough after repeated trials to not immediately throw himself against the floor when released. 

“That’s Conner,” Jack told the teary-eyed child sitting next to him. He continued rubbing his back in a circle. “Can Connor get some pillows and blankets for a nap?” 

“No nap.” Even exhausted from breaking down, he managed to look ornery. 

“Well, I’m tired,” I commented quietly. “The nap is for me.” 

“Can he leave and go get them?” Jack prompted again. 

The five year old scrutinized me before nodding. 

I had no idea how to interact with a five year old, but Jack seemed capable even without me. 

I did fall asleep, and when I woke up Jack was drinking coffee and reading out of a textbook next to me, and the kid was asleep with his back against me. Jack quietly explained that watching me sleep helped Seth feel comfortable sleeping too. (Also that Seth was amused at how the blanket didn’t cover my feet and told Jack in a serious tone how I was tall.) 

Once I was able to move next to him without waking Seth, Jack stressed about a bit about the five year old’s lack of self-soothing techniques (the ability to calm himself in the proper amount of time, he defined for me) and uncertainty about how daycare would go. 

Later we found out why he couldn’t be placed in a household with women, and Jack had to leave the house until evening to recover before seeing Seth again (severe neglect, but also we won't know the full story). 

Things are better now that Seth has been officially adopted and has lived with us for several months. The name change was Jack’s idea: one for the practicality of distancing from trauma but two, in memory (in honor since he is a ghost?) of his three times great grandfather. I think that Seth Senior would appreciate continuing the Whitmore family through adoption since that’s how he became a Whitmore himself. 

I take a picture of the two sleeping, and the flash makes Jack frown and squint at me. 

“You two are so cute. This is going to the grandparents.” (my parents who need to cool it on arguing for us to move back to California) 

“Don’t,” Jack groans quietly. He lets go of his cradle around Seth and rests on his back a moment to rub his eyes. 

“Come on, Jack. Wakey, wakey. Students await to learn the wonders of English, and kiddo has kindergarten.” 

Seth, to his credit, is asleep throughout the conversation but smiles blearily at me waking him up with a song I make up on the spot. He holds up his hands, and I oblige in picking him up and rocking him back and forth until he is fully awake. 

Jack is watching us with the quiet expression he never grew out of when he looks at me. Now it is extended towards the silent warmth of “this is my family”. Seth notices that he is awake and giggles out, “Daddy!” 

Jack reaches out to hold Seth again, and I ignore any wrinkles that may result on my shirt by climbing back into bed and holding Jack with our son. 

Jack has already started watching Seth play with other children at the park with a pensive look. “We have to mind the gap between how we think he is adapting and how he is really.” 

Bundled in a black overcoat and hair wild from the wind, he looked sixteen again in a thirty-five year old self. (Anxious but grounded in the anxiety because stress is something that he knows. He doesn’t know how to best raise a child, and it scares him.) 

He has started saying “I” rather than “we”, and I’ve had to catch him on it. Remind him that I’m here too. We will take care of Seth together. He isn’t by himself, and we can talk. 

Seth will eventually reach sixteen. For whatever that means to him and what it means to Jack and me, it will happen. Hopefully, Jack will handle the memories that return. Hopefully, it will be Seth testing limits and being a dumb teenager but safely. Hopefully with acceptance that two parents who love him are better than the one who didn’t. I don’t know what I’ll be, but I won’t avoid the conversations like I used to. 

If the monsters come back, they will, but the trauma will not repeat. We drew the line, and while Marbury still exists and senseless cruelty seems to permeate lives, we refuse to let it hurt our family again. 

This is it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't like the last few chapters, but I have been working on and off on this, so might as well put it out now rather than never.  
> This is my verison of an epilogue since I needed to give Conner the benefit of the doubt that he would actually address his crap rather than justifying his actions in "Marbury Lens".  
> Anyway, I read "The Marbury Lens" at a weird time in my life and then "Passenger" when I realized it existed several years ago, and it is still series that I suddenly remember once a year and have the desire to re-read. I like to believe that Jack and Conner could be happy together after "Passengers".  
> Thanks for reading.


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